


Saudade

by AberrantMuse



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Adventure, Angst, F/M, Grief, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AberrantMuse/pseuds/AberrantMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Thorin Oakenshield meets the mysterious elf Tauriel, it's understandable that they hold a sense of hostility towards one another. But when they're both united in a common goal, an unexpected relationship flourishes and through a mutual understanding they realize that they need one another to survive and ultimately succeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction and Preface

So, some original writing for the recently released film adaptation of the classic fantasy novel, The Hobbit, that will be done in the form of a dual author and perspective fanfic. Somewhat unorthodox in nature, my partner and have both been inspired to try and capture our own creativity and imaginations into writing a story based off the world of JRR Tolkien. With a dual fic, the plan to begin at least is alternate chapters of each character's perspective (I write Tauriel's POV, my partner writes Thorin's).

Though we're both film enthusiasts, we unfortunately can't say the same for being as well versed with the books. So for the most part we're basing our story in a somewhat Alternative Universe/non-canon timeline. I guess you could describe it as our take on filling in the blanks, and to do that, we draw off both the book lore and the film events. Basically, the internet and our memory of the cinema screen, as well as our own creativity and imagination.

This universe is massive. There are locations and concepts and volumes of history we can't crack in the short space of time we've been looking into it. For more enthusiastic fans or purists of the world, I'd kindly ask you to suspend your disbelief and grant us a little creative freedom. We don't know everything, and though we aren't just writing it completely blind, it's likely we miss a lot. With that in mind, we write because we enjoy it, and in turn, we hope you enjoy the story as much as we do researching, crafting and penning it. Of course, opinions and criticisms (if worded in a constructive manner) are more than welcome. So by all means, whether it's praise or improvements, let us know.

It's also necessary to state, and I'm sure you'll all be aware, that have lives outside of this fic which sometimes get incredibly busy, so I'd ask you to give us a little time at points to get updates together and post them. We both take pride and care with our writing, and I know we'd rather give readers something of quality as opposed to poorly written chapters just because we feel pressured to get something done. With that, all I can say is thank you for taking an interest, and hopefully we live up to any great expectations.

And as a preface to the fic:

_Saudade is a unique Portuguese word that has no immediate translation in English. Saudade describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. It often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing will never return. It's related to the feelings of longing, yearning. A stronger form of saudade may be felt towards people and things whose whereabouts are unknown, such as a lost lover, or a family member who has gone missing._

_Saudade was once described as "the love that remains" after someone is gone. Saudade is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again. It can be described as emptiness, like someone (e.g., one's children, parents, sibling, grandparents, friends, pets) or something (e.g., places, things one used to do in childhood, or other activities performed in the past) should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence. In Portuguese, 'tenho saudades tuas', translates as 'I have saudade of you' meaning 'I miss you', but carries a much stronger tone. In fact, one can have 'saudade' of someone whom one is with, but have some feeling of loss towards the past or the future._


	2. Thorin

The sodden hills of Dunland were a harsh comparison to the glorious halls and chambers of Erebor. Despite myself being of such a young age with the coming of Smaug, I still remember every second of the horror that befell us. From the scalding heat of fiery breath, to the vivid screams of the fallen, to the moment we realised we would receive no aid from Thranduil and his forces. It was that day the Dwarven clan of Durin's folk realised that we were truly helpless.

While Smaug took up residence in our once mighty and infallible stronghold, we were reduced to living in comparative poverty. Our noble house stood little more than neighbours to the wildmen of Dunland. For all the high regard our past held, we had nothing aside from the kin at our shoulders and the axe's upon our back to remind us of our heritage.

Then came the day Thrór left us. It took weeks for his only companion, Nar, to return to us and deliver us a most tragic message; that of how our great king had been brutalised and butchered by the filth that inhabited Moria.

A week later the war cry went out, to all corners of the world inhabited by our kind. "This cannot be borne!" sparked a united surge of Dwarven forces, under the common banner of vengeance. We convened on Azanulbizar in vast numbers and when the vile goblins responded with an army we considered adequately sized, we knew that heroes would rise out of the ensuing bloodshed and warriors would fall. We heard their chants, in their rude black tongue, and responded with our own rallying call.

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" was followed by the thundering charge and clash of Dwarven steel into weak goblin skulls. Our armies collided, and we battled valiantly for hours to follow. Long, hard hours of physicality led to my endurance being tested and by the time he appeared I felt as though I couldn't swing another axe. Azog the Defiler stood towering above his own kind, white skinned aside from streaks of dirt and blood, both red and black. Wielding a sizeable mace and a lengthy scimitar, he'd established himself a barbaric fighter. These tools of war, under his command, had stolen too many lives to go unnoticed and unchallenged. Suddenly I felt no weariness, no pain and no hesitation. I began towards him, motivated by an influx of pride and determination, and as he brought the barbed end of his mace over his head, I raised my shield only to feel it shatter on my forearm. I raised my axe as a secondary defence to block his sword, yet it was no match for the momentum behind his next hammering swing and as the mace collided with my chest plate I was launched backwards to the sodden dirt. It was there, while I lay battered, bruised, tattered and torn, that I acquired the source of my epithet. The thick bulk of a fallen oak branch replaced the shield on my arm, and proved itself to be more effective than the product of a Dwarven smith. The powerful mace could not fracture the replacement, and his blade could barely scratch it, and with it I found my feet and fought back. Azog's arm was all I could take him from that day as a permanent piece of revenge, but in my mind there is no doubt for him to be dead.

A black tar layered the grounds of battle, and _their_ corpses piled high as our forces fought bravely and driven by newly inspired purpose as we saw them begin to fall back. Many brave kin fell, and many more were wounded savagely and we were supreme when the final axe came down and the waves of Orc's subsided and retreated to their dank pits. Yet Moria was not a home to us, and when Dáin, son of Náin gazed into the mines, he glimpsed upon the omen that told him to warn us of what Moria lay host to. There was a creature, of myth and legend that resided in our ancient home: the Balrog known as _Durin's Bane_.

With that, Thráin my father took our house back to Dunland, and then on to the Blue Mountains. The rock and core and earth was where we were comfortable, more so at least than the barren hills of Dunland that had for so long been our only substitute for home. Now we were given a chance to rebuild, and we did so in the ruins of Belegost; an ancient city from ages long since passed.

Four decades went by, and in that time we had achieved something long thought impossible. Our house had found a new home. Not our true home, but one we could yet become proud of. It was 2841 when my father, in the same restless manner as his father before him abandoned our colony in a mindless expedition to seek long abandoned refuge. Yet Moria was not his target. Instead, he set his path to Wilderland, with hopes of returning to the Lonely Mountain. It was here the dark reach of evil long since thought extinguished followed, and my father was taken from our ranks. When his company returned shortly after they'd left with confusing news, it fell to me to take some level of charge. Every day I envisioned my father once again returning to us and living out his final years as a king of his people, yet every day that passed left me questioning this expectation.

Years followed with hints of unrest, and with it, I feared the onset of the same restlessness that befell my fathers. For me, I argued, it was a different kind. I could not rest till I knew of Thrain's fate, yet the initial group had never found a trace of him. So I would look for him once more.

"Balin. You must stay in my absence. You are one of the wisest of our people. Please do this for me now, and I will return you with great trust when the time comes my friend." I took with me instead a small party of our warriors, just twenty in number, integrated with other Dwarves of necessary ability and skills, bringing our group to thirty and one. Our party left Belegost and travelled east once again, just as my father had years before. The journey itself took us months of perseverance and wasn't without its hardships, that much is fair to say. But nothing could have prepared us for what we faced on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains, in the long abandoned battle ground of Drimrill Dale.


	3. Tauriel

The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves upon drooping branches in a manner which would cause shivers to crawl down the spines of beings unaccustomed to the eerie paths of Mirkwood. Once known as Greenwood the Great, my beloved home had become tainted by darkness. The debased woodland realm played host to evil within its depths, and the shadow of the Dark Lord, which fell upon it long ago and changed its name, had scarce lifted in centuries. Regardless, Taur-e-Ndaedelos was still my home. I traveled beyond its borders only when duty's call led me thus. I knew the forest as I knew the backs of my own hands, and the forest knew me.

A mere shift in the breeze brought a familiar scent wafting towards me, and sharp ears caught the lightest of approaching footfalls, prompting me to draw an arrow from the quiver at my back and ready it within my bow, string pulled back to my cheek in a fluid motion which took no longer than the pivot of my heels upon the earth to change my direction and bring my aim directly at my target.

"You know better than to sneak upon me so." The words were accompanied by the flash of an ivory grin mirrored in the expression of Legolas before me.

"Does the mighty Tauriel fail to recognize friend from foe?" Legolas taunted easily as I lowered the weapon and executed a mockingly graceful bow.

"Of course not. I seek only to remind the Prince that he still makes his presence known far too easily. An orc could have heard you coming." Legolas shook his head, his laughter joining my own.

"You simply fret too much, my friend."

"It's my job to fret, Legolas," I returned, my gaze shifting towards the eastern border of the Mirkwood but a scant mile from where we stood. Legolas nodded once in understanding, his own expression turning pensive before he uttered the reason for his presence.

"My father demands to see us both immediately."

Legolas had no answer for my inquiries as to the reason for the abrupt summoning, so it remained only to ensure the patrols were made aware of my departure before we both traveled the short distance to the seat of the Elven King in the northeast of Mirkwood, where we had been driven over time by the darkness which began to consume the southern regions of the forest.

Soon enough we found ourselves within the caverns of a great wooded slope, the halls of Thranduil which lay therein protected by a stone gate and a river over which the only passage was a solitary bridge. No other attended the meeting called by the king save for his personal guards who stationed themselves at either side of his carved wooden throne; Legolas and I were to be the first informed of an encroaching threat from Nanduhirion, Drimrill Dale in the common tongue. Word came to Thranduil through Lady Galadriel that orc activity was on the rise within the valley such as it had not been in decades. Numerous packs had been tracked east of the Great River, some heading north and others daring to venture so far as within mere miles of our Mirkwood borders. Lorien was protected by the power Galadriel wielded in her ring, yet our home possessed no protection but what we ourselves enforced with blade and arrow. Thranduil would take no risks and leave nothing to chance, as threats less tangible and not so easy to cut down as orc packs already troubled our forest.

"I would have one of you lead a company to Nanduhirion to assess this threat, and to eliminate it if need be," Thranduil commanded in a soft tone. "The other will remain here in command of the guard to secure our borders." Thranduil's eyes passed over Legolas and rested upon me. "You will lead the scouting party, Tauriel. Legolas shall remain here and assume command of the guard in your absence." Legolas stiffened beside me while I dipped my head in acknowledgement of my charge before raising speculative hues to meet my king's gaze, fathomless as the sky. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Thranduil had been there when my father, his Captain of the Guard for many centuries, was killed defending his home and people during an orc raid. I had just barely come of age when I lost one of those whom I loved most in the entire world. I saw the loathsome creature deal my father a lethal wound with a rude blade already drenched in the blood of other warriors before it was slain with three arrows to the throat by my father's second in command. Father's sacrifice spared many lives that day, my own included. Overcome with grief, my mother soon began to languish. Had she not the will to live for my sake alone, she might not have lived at all. She toiled on for over a decade, but eventually those who cared for her most began to fear that she would not survive should she stay. With my blessing, she sailed to Valinor to leave the pain of Middle Earth behind. I loved and honoured my mother despite her hard choice, but I vowed I would never be like her. I was my father's daughter and a daughter of the woodlands. Never would I abandon home and duty or waste away for love lost, only to be driven by despair to the land of the Undying. Vengeance soon began to burn hot within me, creeping around my spirit like vines and binding me in its grip, the only release to be found in destroying the evil beings who destroyed my family. In order to accomplish such an aim, I took up arms and fought my way to the position at Thranduil's side: Captain of the Mirkwood Guard. My bow became my own guardian, my long knives extensions of my very arms. I would permit no one to think that I had gained my place through influence or inheritance; therefore I trained twice as hard as any other to prove myself worthy in Thranduil's eyes. Once successful in gaining the position I desired, I devoted myself not only to the people I protected but also to the king I served and the son he cherished. They filled the void left by the loss of my own closest kin, and I would perish before I allowed any harm to come to them. Both knew me well, and they stood among the few whom I could not hide the hatred in my heart from, no matter how deeply within I tried to bury it. It was not something to be proud of, such a burden of bitterness and lust for revenge. It was not our way. Neither King nor Prince ever spoke a word of reprimand, however, and I suspected that Thranduil even viewed it as a useful thing. A tool with which to sharpen me into a deadly weapon.

I agreed readily to the task assigned to me, _eagerly_ even, and departed the royal hall with Legolas at my side for the open air once more. The Prince was gravely quiet until we reached the bridge, and he had given his father no response but for a deferential nod before we departed. Once beyond the range of any other's hearing, Legolas muttered of his dissatisfaction with the idea, stating that Thranduil should have chosen him for the task and left me to command my guard.

"He has his reasons, Legolas," I chided.

"He always does," came the hard reply, and my friend's eyes were troubled.

I laid a confident hand upon Legolas' shoulder."You must trust that Thranduil will do what is best for you. For all of us. _He always does_ ," I repeated his own words back to him.

"Perhaps you trust too much, Tauriel." It was not a rebuke or an accusation. It was a suggestion. A question even, soft and seemingly benign, and enough to leave me speechless before Legolas pulled me into a quick embrace, his parting words murmured against my ear.

"Tenna' ento lye omenta, mellon." _Until next we meet, friend_.

I rode out at dawn with fifty at my back. Fifty-one in all, devoted to the protection of our lands and our people, and one devoted to the promise of death upon an old enemy so dearly despised.


	4. Thorin

The air was thick and heavy, as though someone had laid a blanket just meters above our heads. My hands instinctively set to purpose; the axe leant against my shoulder turned outwards with my fingers curled around its shaft. I noticed moments later that the palm of my other hand was resting on the hilt of my sword protruding above my belt and in response adjusted my fingers to secure a better grip.

"I have my doubts that we're alone, Thorin," came a loud, but steady voice from the back of my group.

I remained level headed, replying with an unshaken tone. "And if that is the case my friend, then we will welcome our company with open arms and sharpened axe. It is no surprise that where we stand now has history of conflict, both recent and long since passed. But we are here for a more important purpose: my father, and if I need remind you, our King. What do you expect we encounter? A rogue band of Moria orc with crudely fashioned blades? Or perhaps some savage wild men with pitchforks rather than swords? We have nothing to fear here and so forward we go."

My word was final, and although I heard murmurs of discussion immediately after, the party soon fell silent and our march continued towards the great river known in the elven tongue as Anduin. Though the land up until that point was wide open, there were patches of tree cover, although sparse where we sought moments of respite when endurance failed us. From there, I reflected, we would follow its course towards Mirkwood, or at least that was the intended path, for where else would my father have been hidden in which he could have been rescued?

Though I was certain the elves of Lórien held the usual disdain of my kind, I was still doubtful that they would bring harm to a dwarf who had cast them no ill will. I only hoped he was still sane enough to raise no threat against them. I kept thoughts to myself, but it was no secret my father's mental state had been in decline for some time, as his father's did before him towards the final stage of his life.

Perhaps, if I made it to such an age, I would suffer a similar fate, only for a son to take my place. I knew full well that I made a mighty warrior, and many tempted fate saying they expected greatness of me when it came to my rule. But a father…well, that is a task to behold and one I feared I would be no good at. Such, of course, were private thoughts that busied my mind while we walked.

Over the short period of time that followed, I sensed growing agitation not only amongst my men, but also amongst the elements of nature around us. Within half of an hour, the skies had morphed into a grey sheet, with slivers of black suggesting there was worse yet to come. The winds whipped up as we crossed the dale, and soon the outfit was caught in a torrent of rain and wind howled.

It was in between such howls, that a certain pitch differentiated from the rest. The wind has many sounds, but it is always an empty sound. The howl that captured our attention came from our backs, and it was a fierce, dense call. The sound was distinct, not the least to a Dwarven ear. There was no mistaking the cry of a warg. Rarely seen truly wild (for wargs could never be completely tamed) and without masters, our assumptions were confirmed when small dark figures appeared atop the hulking earthly colours of the beasts.

A shout of urgency erupted simultaneously from every dwarf in the company, as the grind of assorted iron and steel rung out against the wind. I pulled free my sword, dual wielding a choice of death for every vile orc and foul warg that found their way into my path.

"There are many Thorin. Should we run?"

"We cannot run. Not here. If we were closer to the mountains, or forest, or even the river we would have some sort of obstacle. But this is open field. There is only one answer to the threat, and that is to fight."

I expected our numbers to be lowered from that encounter alone. We could have turned and run for our lives, but I doubt we would have made it far. Wargs are as fast as they are brutal, and the addition of crude archers from their backs only lowered our chances. They could, however, be toppled and their riders dismounted, especially when struck low and driven upwards. There was little which could withstand a heavy strike from a dwarf, and it would be then that the tables would turn.

I stood at the front of our group, like any leader would, and it was there that the first swing of my axe wedged into the throat of a warg and my sword was plunged into its rider.

In a similar fashion, some of our opposition were disposed of. Yet it was not simply Dwarven weaponry that saw an end to the immediate threat for a number of the fatally wounded that lay before us were riddled with arrows. Elvish arrows.

They moved like ghosts from a patch of woodland just a few hundred meters away, a flow of stoic riders, silent to the clash of swords and butchering of warg and oc alike. Their bows were whispers in the wind, each arrow a shrill whistle and a soft thud a moment later was all you could tell of their presence. I believe the saying _out of the frying pan, into the fire_ would have been appropriate at this time, for it is always a tense situation to say the least when elves see it fit to intervene in a much more personal conflict.

A single body approached from the party; riding steadily and purposefully closer before halting. "You looked in need of some assistance, _ai' atar_."

"If you wish to insult me and those aligned to me, say it in a braver tongue, she-elf."

"The haste of your kind has yet to escape you, Thorin son of Thrain. Yet it is encouraging to know you can distinguish the voice of a female elf. You jump to conclusions almost quicker than I can draw my bow. I meant you no offence, _goth en gothamin._ "

It would be safe to say, I was uncertain as to how to react at that point in time.

"Why is it that you know of me, yet I know nothing of you? Not a name, not a purpose. Did you save us for the sole intention of dealing with us yourselves? For if that is the case, then why waste time she-elf?" I noticed the venom, only half intentional, in my tone, but I could not afford to break my gaze upon the semi-shrouded face.

In seeming acknowledgement and in some attempt to settle the situation she drew back her hood and by no means gave me a reason to break my gaze, simply a reason to hold it.

"I am Tauriel, captain of the Mirkwood guard in service to the Elvenking Thranduil. Lower your weapon, Master Dwarf, for we seek no conflict. Our interest is solely the rise in orc activity which is threatening our borders. We received word of a small force travelling this side of the great river, and it seems you found it. Or at least, part of it. I believe it safe to say we have a common enemy here, and it is not one another."

It was then I was suspect of a trick or a ploy. The elves were renowned for being sharp and sly when the moment suited them. Surrounded by orcs and suddenly gifted with the presence of dwarves would be a most peculiar situation that they likely would look to take advantage of. _Never trust an elf_ was an all too familiar lesson learnt long ago.

Rolling my sword in my hand I thrust it downwards, planting it firmly into the ground and let the shaft of my axe slip through my hand till the cold steel head rested against my fist. Realising it would be foolish to agitate the situation once again, I paused to contemplate my following words.

"I'm afraid we're preoccupied with more important tasks than eradicating rambling orc forces, and though I have no intention of leaving any alive if they cross our path, I also have no intention of sharing with you my time or energy, not the least the likes of Mirkwood." Surely that was reasonable, considering past transgressions. Yet Tauriel's attention to my words had wavered, as had her entourage. Their heads turned to the distance once again, towards the ominous grey wall that resembled the Misty Mountains.

"I'm afraid you have no choice, Thorin Oakenshield, for our mutual enemy fast approaches in vastly greater force." She cast her hand to the torsos strewn across the ground. "This was but a scouting party. A warg is a loud beast, especially when being slain. Orc senses might be as blunt as their blades, but a warg can hear its own. So now they come. I would suggest that you and your party go nowhere, but feel free to ignore the warning as I've no doubt you're considering. Your choice, Thorin son of Thrain."  With that, she retreated back to her kin and descended into an unintelligible Elven tongue.

I heard the stampede before I could clearly see it. The rain and winds had subsided somewhat, yet the day was still dark and from the darkness came what you might expect; a broad mass of warg riders, much larger than that which had found us before. Where we dismissed the prior threat with ease, I could tell without attempting to count that we were bordering on outnumbered.

"We shall lead them away from you, to give you a breath of space," I called to Tauriel, who nodded in understanding. It was well known that dwarves were wasted at range, much more attuned to the physicality of the melee, while the elves held their renown with their bow for a reason. It only figured that if I led my force headfirst into the conflict, Tauriel would find the bow in her hand as well as those in her command to be much more efficient. I could only hope it was worth it.

Reclaiming my sword, I rallied all courage and vigour that I could in the short space of time it took for the enemy to meet us. Much the same as before we moved as a solid unit, slowly distancing ourselves from the elves.

Bodies fell from their mounts before they got within a distance that was even mildly appropriate for an attempt at archery. A spare second was spent studying the fluid machine that was the elven guard before my attention snapped back to those who'd made it through the barrage. In a well-practiced motion I crippled the front legs of a berserk warg, with its frantic motions only ceasing when a battle axe swung into the top of its head, painting me with dark, thick blood.

"TOGETHER! Stay together! We will only outlive this through unity," I cried, noticing my kin straying; to be caught alone while still in the open was suicidal. I made with my group towards the small outcrop of woodland. Barely large enough to be called that, but it would break up our fighting on the open ground, and give us the close combat we preferred. The flood of warg riders had split, with the majority heading in my direction, as opposed to that of the elves. The wails and groans of warg and orc alike had long been the only signal of fatality, but the inevitable roar of a fallen dwarf as he took his final blow was a sharp reminder of our mortality.

We reached the tree line within minutes from that point, but it had required determined running as opposed to the slow retreat we had been making, and it was that which cost me so many loyal kin. Our numbers were slowly, but surely dropping and as it stood they were an invaluable resource.

Taking position within the protection of wide trunks, the few that remained fast made use of the environment, sending unacquainted wargs and their riders to the ground as they crashed heavily over tree roots and uneven terrain. By no means were the wargs expectant, or reliant on flat grasslands, but the thick mud was no tough rock, and they became uneven especially within such narrow confines.

Now it was their turn to watch numbers diminish, and though it was exhausting work for my limited numbers, progress was made. The dregs of their forces were pouring into the funnel, and in hindsight the adrenaline of battle combined with an undying rage prompted a most poor decision. I charged forth from what had become a costly barrier of protection into the remaining handful of wargs. A courageous move, yet a tired body and a grieving mind is a recipe for disaster, especially when your opponent is a ravenous beast with a warmongering fiend encouraging it.

I was knocked on my back, my sword inserted at a weak angle to the side of the beast – by no means the felling thrust I intended. I scrambled for my axe, and held it as the only object between vicious jaws and my form, though the weight of a warg was known to be more thick muscle than insulating fat. It pulled and pushed, clamping and wrestling against my axe. Though a Dwarven axe does not fail its maker in its time of need, with my brethren still occupied between their own opponents, I felt there was no chance of saving myself. Above the rabid growl of the creature I heard the mocking cackle of the orc astride its back. I doubted he even knew who it was he was about to kill. Perhaps it was better that way.

Suddenly the laughter fell silent, and a gurgle took its place before the body went limp and dropped off the side of its mount. The warg's attention barely wavered; it was too hungry to consider anything else.

In battle, the most unlikely of events transpire because despite the nature of war, the two essential sides are that of good, and that of evil. An elf had put aside the differences of our races to kill the true scourge.

How unfortunate it was that although an Elven blade is sharper than even that of a Dwarven smith, they lack the power of our arm. I saw the glimmer of the sword arc through the air and cut into the warg on its upper back – a poor choice to an uninitiated swordsman. The warg hide is thick and tough and not easily pierced. So while the action would cause pain, it was unlikely it would kill, and when the warg grunted my fears were confirmed. It reeled its head back and turned to the new aggressor, and when I brought myself to standing it already seemed too late. In the distance I saw the green veil of the elves distancing themselves from us. The attack was over, but surely they would not abandon one of their own when so grievously wounded? It was no time for trivial thoughts, however, for soon the wounded would become the dead.

With the last of my strength I drew my axe to above my head and pulled it down into the neck of the warg, rewarding myself with the dull crack of bone and an almost instant limpness. The elf that rolled from its jaws though was un-hooded, and the only one I knew by name.

_Tauriel_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but I hope you enjoy the updates! Comments/reviews are always appreciated.


	5. Tauriel

The ride south to the valley of Nanduhirion would have seemed long and hard but for the steadfastness of purpose that drove me from within: a burning need, an itch beneath my skin, a craving to see the spillage of vile orc blood. Once past the borders of the forest, we seemed to drift over hill and dale and across streams in our path as though our mounts' thundering hooves barely touched upon the earth, halting for rest only when it became of urgent need. The faithful warriors who rode with me uttered not a word of complaint, apart from my second-in-command, Amroth, who suggested that any enemy who awaited us would not likely disappear with the coming of another dawn. I was used to such from my Second, an elf who rose to his position scant decades ago after his well-trusted and much beloved predecessor had succumbed to the shadow Mirkwood's toll upon his spirit and opted for the shores of Valinor. Amroth was cunning and greatly skilled in all arts of warfare, yet I suspected that ambition bid him set his sights upon my station as Captain of the Guard, which gave me cause to never fully lay my trust in him. I did not grace Amroth's thinly-veiled challenge of my authority with any reply but a withering gaze and a resumed path southward, causing the borders of our forest home to disappear further behind and beside us as we kept a fairly steady parallel with the great Anduin River.

The skies changed, darkening as we moved ere closer to Nanduhirion, a place which seemed haunted by a shadow of evil not unlike that which crept through the great forest, closing in on the halls of Thranduil like an unassuming fog. The valley had indeed become host to much evil long before any newly swelling threat raised cause for alarm; sun-bleached bones could still be found scattered through the fields that lay before Moria, lingering witnesses of what the dwarves called the Battle of Azanulbizar, last conflict in a war between their kind and the orc-filth which had infested Moria. The elves of Mirkwood and Rivendell had watched and listened through kindred eyes and ears in Lórien as their war raged, knowing the outcome would affect all our kind for better or worse. Relief was found in the victory of Durin's folk over the feared Azog the Defiler, yet we knew the enemy could not be completely wrested from the mountains while the Nameless Terror lingered deep within the pit of Moria. The effects of what had passed in the valley were finally being felt, as ripples from a disturbing pebble dropped into a pool of water finally reaching the shores.

Our party slowed as the hills faded and the terrain flattened into the valley, sparsely scattered patches of trees and brush providing the only cover but for outcroppings of rocks. Tension infiltrated our ranks as the overcast sky blackened with each passing breath, the darkness and an eventual downpour of rain failing both to mask the sight of the precursors of enemy forces lurking upon the slopes across the valley and to cover their stench which wafted towards us on howling winds.

"Halt!" My command was met with swift obedience, each fellow elf reigning in their steed after mine as we took cover within a sizable copse of trees. Desiring to gain a better view before leading my forces headlong into an attack, I dismounted beside a jagged boulder and scaled to the top of the rock, nimbly leaping from its edge to a sturdy branch upon the nearest tree. A few maneuvres further up the trunk brought me to an ideal perch, and I surveyed the valley with keen eyes despite the pelting rain from my newly gained position.

My initial scope of the land had been accurate enough in determining how many orc scouts mounted upon their filthy wargs crawled over the slopes at the base of the mountain, but I had missed the sight of what seemed to draw them down from their posts one by one as flies swarming a rotting carcass. There, within a steeper dip in the valley, more than a score of dwarves readied themselves for battle with the encroaching orcs.

"Nadorhuanrim," I whispered as I watched the first of the scouts attack the surrounded party of dwarves, relieved to see a sword cut down first beast and then rider. Upper lip curling as sudden fury overwhelmed me, I swiftly alerted the rest of my company to the scene.

"Astalderea, en!"

An arm and index finger outstretched to indicate what was occurring was hardly necessary then, as the battle cries of the besieged dwarves and the hideous howling of wargs quickly rose to join the clamour of the wind. Wasting no time, I ordered my warriors to their best vantage points within the trees, reaching to my back to retrieve my bow and a first arrow from the quiver, easily taking aim at a warg charging the Dwarven ranks.

"Sii'!"

Scores of arrows flew upon command, whistling through the air until they found their marks in orc and warg. The corners of my lips curled in delight at the sight of riders falling from their mounts and the sound of pained howls erupting from the throats of wounded beasts. With the first volley successfully eliminating a number of the scouts closing in upon the party of dwarves, I commanded an advance to meet them upon the new-found battleground. I swung down from the branch I had perched upon and sprang with ease back up into my saddle, covered by a second volley from the back of our ranks as I led a charge into the open. Bow exchanged for my long knives, I found the weapons almost needless as the last of the scouts fell to either well-aimed arrows or the hacking of Dwarvish axes and swords.

I held up a hand for a slowed pace as the immediate threat was eliminated, not wishing to unduly alarm the circled dwarves by the charging of my riders. Halting completely once within earshot of our assumed allies against the orcs, keen eyes scanned each member of the small party in search of their leader; it did not take long to discover him.

Thorin Oakenshield.

My gaze widened minutely in response to the presence of the dwarf prince, thoroughly unexpected, as our last knowledge of the expulsed dwarves of Erebor had placed them far away to the West in the Blue Mountains. Eschewing the urge to immediately satisfy my curiosity as to the reason for their appearance upon the plains of Drimrill Dale once again, I opted instead to address the prince regarding our move to their aid while a few of his comrades pulled their bloodied weapons from the bodies of the enemies fallen around them.

"You looked in need of some assistance, ai' atar."

Thorin Oakenshield's gaze darkened as he stepped forward from his party, a gruff answer quickly befalling.

"If you wish to insult me and those aligned to me, say it in a braver tongue, she-elf."

I arched a brow at that, though certain my disdain was obscured by the shadow of my cloak's hood. Never before had I heard the voice of the heir of Erebor, and his mere tone was enough to confirm what little I knew of him as told by my king. I bit back a harsher reply not becoming one of my station and responded with cool, measured calm.

"The haste of your kind has not escaped you, Thorin son of Thrain. Yet it is encouraging to know you can distinguish the voice of a female elf. You jump to conclusions almost quicker than I can draw my bow. I meant you no offense, goth en gothamin."

"Why is it that you know of me, yet I know nothing of you? Not a name, not a purpose. Did you save us for the sole intention of dealing with us yourselves? For if that is the case, then why waste time, she-elf?"

The spite in Thorin's deep voice was not lost upon me, and I barely refrained from flinching at the implication of the questions posed. He wished to know how I recognized him and seemed to believe that my warriors and I would have no decent cause to come to their aid. It was not entirely unreasonable. How could I say that I knew his face because I had seen it once before, as I awaited command at Thranduil's side while looking down upon a scene of utter terror and destruction? How could I admit that I had seen the young dwarf prince shouting and begging for help as he led his fleeing people from their home while Smaug laid waste with his fiery greed, only to turn my back without question when so ordered? I could not. My king had his reasons, valid ones, but I had not been able to deny the sickness I felt as screams and wailing fell upon retreating ears.

Convincing myself that it was discretion rather than shame which led me to avoid a direct answer of Thorin's question, I drew back the hood which darkened my visage and met his eyes whilst granting a proper introduction.

"I am Tauriel, Captain of the Mirkwood guard in service to the Elvenking Thranduil. Lower your weapon, Master Dwarf, for we seek no conflict. Our interest is solely the rise in orc activity which is threatening our borders. We received word of a small force travelling this side of the great river, and it seems you found it. Or at least, part of it. I believe it safe to say we have a common enemy here, and it is not one another."

"I'm afraid we're preoccupied with more important tasks than eradicating rambling orc forces and though I have no intention of leaving any alive if they cross our path, I have no intention of sharing with you my time or energy, not the least the likes of Mirkwood."

Thorin lowered his weapons as requested while he spoke, and his words again piqued my curiosity as to the reason for their presence. A reason which Thorin seemed unwilling to disclose. I had little time to dwell on such matters, however, as ominous sounds from the mountains gave reminder that danger had hardly abated.

"I'm afraid you have no choice, Thorin Oakenshield, for our mutual enemy fast approaches in vastly greater force. This was but a scouting party. A warg is a loud beast, especially when being slain. Orc senses might be as blunt as their blades, but a warg can hear its own. So now they come. I would suggest that you and your party go nowhere, but feel free to ignore the warning as I've no doubt you're considering. Your choice, Thorin son of Thrain."

With that, I turned my mount and retreated to my patiently awaiting ranks, abandoning use of the common tongue as I delivered orders for my warriors. Every last one of us could hear the sound of the coming onslaught; we could feel tremors through the very ground as scores upon scores of orc-ridden wargs descended from the mountains, paws pounding the earth in their charge into the valley. The ghastly howls rang ever clearer as the winds gentled and the rainfall subsided.

"We shall lead them away from you, to give you a breath of space," Thorin Oakenshield bellowed across the space that separated our ranks. I turned in my saddle, a definitive nod signalling my approval of the dwarf prince's logical strategy.

"Form ranks and take aim. They come with haste." My commands were spoken with an utter calm which belied the anxious set of my gaze upon the dark storm which swept onwards with murderous intent, yet my own bloodlust kindled as I envisioned the destruction of every last piece of orc-filth.

"Fire!"

Arrows flew then with deadly accuracy, nearly every one lodging in the body of either beast or rider and lessing the number which reached the Dwarven ranks. Drawing a second arrow and setting it to place, I drew back upon my bow and took aim, my shot stalled as the sight of the dwarf prince cutting into the first warg to reach him took my notice. The monster was dispatched in only two blows, and a faint smile curved my lips before I returned attention to my target and sent an arrow sailing into the skull of an orc who raised his arm to cut down a battling dwarf.

My archers took aim at will after the first round, and our ranks remained tightly closed until the encroaching orc pack split, the greater number chasing after the dwarves as they retreated for a small patch of woodland while the smaller portion altered their course and charged directly for us.

Most bows were exchanged for swords and long knives, as our skills and preferences dictated, and we waited in complete stillness while the enemy drew closer, unflinching in the face of threat to our very lives. I too chose to abandon bow for my long knives, the weapons unsheathed mere moments before the wargs clashed with our ranks.

We had been a solid unit until that moment, a mechanism of fluid and seemingly effortless destruction, yet the moment that unity was destroyed by the headlong clash of the enemy, they discovered what it was to fall prey to the power and anger of the woodland's children as individuals. Each of us had born evil's burdensome shadow in patience too long; each of us stood ready to fight and lay down our lives for our kin awaiting at home; and some, like myself, bore grudges more personal that ran far too deep.

I relished their horrid shrieks and squeals, the gurgling of blood filling their throats and spilling from their foul mouths as we struck them down one by one, strewing the field with their bodies in whole or in parts. The wargs proved more difficult to destroy, and I cried out in rage as I witnessed more than one of my loyal ones fall prey to the formidable foe that was beast coupled with rider. We could not halt for the precious losses of fallen kin; their deaths seemed to only heighten our resolve, and soon enough we found ourselves the victors, spattered with the blood of our enemies.

Those closest to the fallen went to them immediately, silently grieving as they ensured a dignified passing from this world for their fellow warriors. I swiftly assessed our damages before turning my attention to see what had become of the Dwarven ranks, dismayed to see their losses heavy and their remaining few fighting for their lives against the remainder of the orc pack which seemed to have entrapped them within the terrain they used for shelter. My countenance darkened as I watched, uncertainty rendering me still. Duty dictated that I see to my own guard and remove us from the path of what more and greater danger would surely follow, yet I could not tear my gaze from the scene before me. Our slain needed to be cared for, our defenses tightened, and our King alerted to the truth of the growing threat's severity. It was not Mirkwood alone which would suffer should the enemy reign unchecked within the valley, but Lórien and perhaps even Rivendell across the mountains as well. The realization that my ranks stood too few in number to engage and eliminate every orc pack which doubtless infested the area drew a grimace to my features, and I knew we had little choice but to return home to report and gather reinforcements before yet another discovered us upon the heels of the first.

Steeling myself for what I knew I must do, I turned away from view of the carnage before me and commanded a retrieval of the dead before we retreated. My spirit twisted within me as I issued the orders, yet I recalled the words the dwarf prince himself had spoken and hardened my heart. They would not have given us aid if the pack's rapid attack had not forced an engagement, even after we spared them the assault of the scouts. There was no cause for us to do more for them.

Our dead were quickly secured to their mounts and each survivor prepared for departure, awaiting only my word. I should never have turned one last time to see what became of the dwarves.

I watched in awe—whether at the bravery or the sheer stupidity I was not sure—as Thorin Oakenshield broke from the cover of the trees and charged into the thick of what remained of the orc pack, his prowess in battle not preventing him from falling prey to the madness of such a move. Despite the sheathing of his sword in a warg's flank, Thorin was knocked to the ground by the creature who seemed to barely notice the injury, and its attack was only stalled by the wedging of the dwarf's axe handle into its mouth.

It was a gruesome thing to watch, knowing that the prince was going to meet his end in the jaws of a vile animal. I sent the last two arrows in my quiver straight into the beast, loathe to depart absent even an attempt to aid our unlikely ally. The warg seemed to hardly notice the arrows buried in its body, frenzied as it was in its intent to kill. Even from a distance, I could hear the cackling of the orc sitting astride the creature, and its malicious delight roused my fury anew. I knew I should not stay, and yet I could not make myself turn again.

"Amroth..."  Whipping my head around to where my Second waited, I charged him with fulfilment of my duty in order to grant myself space to fulfil a more urgent call. "You will lead them home. Stop for nothing and report to Thranduil what has happened here."

Amroth's brows raised, but he uttered not a word of dissent. I knew he would not.

"Tauriel! What do you mean to do?" The cry came from another within the ranks, his alarm clearly overriding formalities of title.

"I mean to do what I must," I uttered as I drew my crimson-stained knives once more. My mount pranced in anticipation, and I rounded to the horrified gazes of my warriors as a few weak echoes of protest resounded.

"Do not question me, voronwea. _Go_!"

I spared them not another glance, unable to dwell upon the anguished thought that it might be the last as I spurred my steed and charged towards the fray. I heard shouts of my name, but little did they register. My focus was set, and once within range I threw a knife with an agile flick of my wrist, satisfied to see the orc triumphing over the dwarf prince fall from his mount. I dispatched the second knife almost as quickly, yet the weapon missed its mark as the warg bore down upon its victim in a lunge. The knife barely scraped the tip of its ear.

Shouting in frustration, I reached for the sword strapped to the side of my saddle, unsheathing it in a smooth motion and raising it to strike as my horse dashed up alongside the beast. The sword had never been my preference, yet I was skilled and confident in its use. The blow I struck into the warg's upper back should have been lethal, yet even as the blade sliced into the thick hide, the brute relented its assault of the dwarf and whirled upon me with unexpected speed. The sword was wrenched from my grasp as the beast turned, and the blade remained wedged in its back. Attempts to rein in my frightened mount failed, and the horse reared violently, throwing me from its back before it bolted.

Stunned only momentarily, I swiftly leapt to my feet, but it was already too late. Without my weapons, no agility could save me from the massive, clamping jaws. All the breath left my body at the sheer power of the beast's mouth ensnaring me before I even felt its teeth pierce into my flesh. The cry that ripped from my throat was drawn as much by pain as by the knowledge that I had failed. I had failed my king, my guard, and my people, and for what? To spare the life of an arrogant dwarf prince who would likely perish soon after me?

Cursing the foolishness which had prompted my rash action, I struggled in vain against the warg's hold, my strength sapping as my blood flowed. The monstrous being shook me in its mouth, and though I felt my flesh tear further, the pain began to ebb as dizziness fogged my mind.

Suddenly, I felt the jarring impact of my body against damp earth, yet I could not even find relief in the fact of being released from the warg's jaws. Though my vision blurred, as I tilted my head upon the ground I could see the retreating forms of my kin, my fellow warriors. Had they waited? Had they even seen my downfall? It mattered little. I was going to die alone in a pool of my own blood, and I had none but myself to lay blame to for it.

The sounds of the remaining clash of battle began to fade, and my view of the darkened sky began to blur at the edges, spots dotting my vision as I fought a losing battle for consciousness. As if in a final mockery of my efforts, suddenly there appeared above me a face: stern and bearded, with piercing blue eyes beneath heavy brows, grim lips speaking words my darkening mind could not comprehend.

_Thorin Oakenshield_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few translations:
> 
> nadorhuanrim - cowardly dogs  
> astalderea, en - valiant ones, look  
> sii' - now  
> ai' atar - little father (a common description for a male dwarf)  
> goth en gothamin - foe of my foe   
> voronwea - loyal ones
> 
> Hope that was helpful. Thanks for reading!


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